King's Landing, the garrison camp.
The sun hung high in the sky.
On the playground of the city garrison in the northeast corner of the city, thousands of Gold Cloaks had gathered—unarmored, wearing only simple leather jackets.
Today was the day Prince Aegon and Aeryn Rogare, daughter of Lord Rys, were to sign their marriage contract.
By custom, the garrison should have sent men to maintain order during the celebration at the Red Keep and receive the applause of the people.
But the order issued was the opposite: aside from the necessary guards and patrols, all personnel had assembled to receive a reward.
"They say the regent is pleased and will award each of us a gold dragon," muttered a veteran with a scar across his cheek to his young companion beside him.
"I've guarded the gates of King's Landing for twenty years, from the reign of old King Jaehaerys to now, and I've never heard of a prince marrying while the entire company is summoned to the yard to collect a reward."
The young Gold Cloak rubbed his hands and glanced quietly at the officers waiting on the high platform. "The commander's face… it doesn't look necessary."
The scarred veteran followed his gaze.
The garrison commander, Ser Ross Lagate, an old knight with graying hair and still tall frame, stood before the platform, hands clasped behind his back.
He wore a gilded breastplate marking his rank, no helmet, and the wrinkles on his face appeared especially deep under the sun.
From time to time, he glanced toward the camp gates with solemn expression.
"I hear Prince Aemond intends to personally distribute the coins," another soldier said, lowering his voice. "That prince…"
"Shh!" the scarred veteran snapped at him.
It had been over three years since the incident on Driftmark Island, but Prince Aemond—who had tamed Vhagar at twelve and later executed Vaemond before the Iron Throne—and the near-dragon war at Rhaenys' Hill four months ago had made his name feared among the lower ranks of the garrison.
"He approaches," whispered the young Gold Cloak.
The camp gates swung open. There were no horns, no honor guard.
First to enter was the Justice Minister, Jaspy Wylde. The bald aristocrat, always smooth and smiling, now wore a solemn smile suitable for official proceedings.
Beside him walked Aemond Targaryen.
The prince was clad in black, with long silver-and-gold hair tied at the nape, walking confidently toward the high platform, unflinching.
Behind them followed dozens of personal soldiers, transferred from Harrenhal, clad in white armor adorned with dragon patterns, the chestplate embroidered with the Targaryen three-headed dragon, sharp lines forming grotesque dragon heads, and white tails trailing from their helmets.
These soldiers were very young; the eldest was only nineteen, yet their eyes were sharp, hands always on their sword hilts, marching in tight formation, exuding a deadly aura, utterly unlike the ordinary garrison.
The prince's arrival instantly silenced the murmurs of the thousands below, leaving a dull hush.
All eyes fixed on the dark figure ascending the high platform.
Ser Ross Lagate stepped forward and bowed slightly.
"Your Grace Aemond, Your Excellency Lord Justice. Aside from the necessary guards and patrols, the remaining four thousand one hundred sixty-five members of the city garrison are assembled here awaiting orders."
Dozens of noble officers behind him bowed as well.
Aemond did not reply immediately.
He stood at the edge of the platform, his deep violet eyes slowly scanning the dark crowd below.
Wherever his gaze fell, soldiers instinctively lowered their eyes or turned away, avoiding the prince's stare.
Justice Minister Jaspy Wylde cleared his throat and spoke in his smooth, practiced voice:
"Gentlemen! Today is the wedding of His Royal Highness Prince Aegon, and Regent Queen Alicent is pleased and acknowledges your diligent service in defending the capital, and specially commands me and His Highness the Prince to present your rewards!"
"All, receive the gold dragon!"
At the command, several personal soldiers carried a heavy oak chest onto the high platform.
The box hit the ground with a dull metallic thud. The lid opened, and in the dim light, the gold dragons reflected a warm, enticing gleam.
A restrained gasp and swallowing echoed through the platform.
A gold dragon was nearly two months' pay for an ordinary garrison soldier.
For many Gold Cloaks from poor families, it was undoubtedly a vast sum.
Yet Aemond remained silent.
He inclined his head slightly and whispered to Jaspy beside him, "The men, they are all here?"
The flesh on Jaspy's face twitched slightly, and he quietly replied, "Your Grace, by your command, all men able to attend are present."
"Ser Ross was promoted personally by Prince Daemon, and the garrison contains many officers and soldiers who supported Prince Daemon.
However," he hesitated, "nominally, I am their commander."
"But Your Grace, you know the city garrison has always been an army directly under His Majesty…"
Aemond nodded.
At that moment, Ser Ross stepped forward again, respectfully and nervously:
"Your Grace, now that the reward has been presented, will you receive it according to the orders of the garrison?"
"Do not rush, Ser Ross." Aemond turned to him.
"The rewards will be given in due course. But until then, there are words that all who serve the royal family must understand."
He looked again at the crowd, and his gaze made thousands feel a chill in their hearts.
The young man beside the scarred veteran could not contain himself and whispered, "What the hell is he trying to say?"
"Shut up and listen closely," the scarred veteran growled, eyes fixed on the high platform.
Just as the silence was about to erupt into anxious chaos—
"Rrrr!"
A dragon's roar, tearing through the clouds, exploded overhead!
Everyone raised their heads in shock, seeing a massive shadow sweeping over the camp, stirring a strong wind.
It was a pure black dragon, wings spanning more than thirty feet, its sleek body covered in obsidian-like scales, shining cold and hard under the clouds.
It hovered low over the platform, its crimson vertical pupils coldly surveying the ant-like crowd below, a threatening hiss curling in its throat.
It was Lathron—the second dragon of Prince Aemond!
"Dragon! A dragon!"
"Will it breathe fire?!"
"Run!"
Panic spread.
"Everyone! Quiet!!"
A young officer named Hel, standing near Aemond, shouted sharply, and the personal guards of Harrenhal answered in unison, shaking the playground.
At the same time, the heavy and precise sound of marching and the clash of armor rang out at the camp gates.
Groups of heavily armed soldiers poured in.
Their numbers numbered about five hundred, clad in the same armor as Aemond's personal soldiers, some carrying bows and crossbows.
The squad moved quickly and silently, spreading along the edge of the platform to form a tight perimeter.
Crossbowmen ascended the walls and towers, cold bolts aimed at the center of the playground.
This was the army of Harrenhal, transferred by Prince Aemond from his fief.
At that moment, even the most indifferent Gold Cloak understood fully that today's event was no ordinary reward.
This was a bloodless seizure of power. Or… a purge?
Unease rippled through the ranks, all eyes fixed anxiously on the platform.